


Impending Doom (of an Empire)

by IzzyR0ckz



Category: Invader Zim
Genre: Canon Compliant, Falling In Love, How did they get there? Well Let Me Tell You., M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Resisty AU, the tallest end up in the resistance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-04 07:33:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21193955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IzzyR0ckz/pseuds/IzzyR0ckz
Summary: It's not that either of them misses being Tallest, necessarily, just aspects of it. Red misses the authority. Purple misses the snacks. Red thinks it would be easier to find a babysitter if they had an entire army at their command. Purple misses throwing people who disobeyed him out the airlock. It's all a little ridiculous, frankly.But missing isn't the beginning of the story, is it?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> creators: parents  
Primary creator: birthing parent  
Secondary creator: non-birthing parent
> 
> Also, this story is fueled by the HC that Invader Zim is narrated by Gaz, who exaggerates everyone else's dumbassery to a comical level. Mostly because I am incapable of writing crack, let alone at the god-like level Vasquez does. So characters' personalities are based on the ones in the show, just made a little more competent so I can, like, actually write something serious about them.

_ “What were you before?” Pink asks one night when he’s just barely older than a smeet. He’s seated on his secondary creator’s lap on their couch in the common area of their family’s quarters. Most quarters only have one room, even on the Resistance’s main flagship, but they get larger because his creators are important (or so they tell him). He gets his own room, his creators’ get theirs across from him, as well as a private cleaning room off to the side. _

_ “Before what?” his Secondary asks, most of his focus on a datapad in his right hand filled with tiny print Pink is too young to understand. Pink has a datapad as well, though his is filled with colorful squiggles that he’s learning are the Irken alphabet. Secondary takes a drink of his slushie, before lowering it so Pink can get a sip too. Pink savors the sweetness, a rare treat; the Resistance doesn’t have much access to these kinds of luxuries. _

_ “Primary said you used to be able to have all the snacks you wanted,” Pink explains. He feels Secondary tense under him, looks up to see his antennae flat against his head. _

_ “He told you that?” Secondary asks, red eyes narrowed. _

_ “Yeah,” Pinks says, “can you go back to being that? I want slushies more often.” Secondary stares down at him for a long time, and Pink begins to squirm, thinking about his words in case he said something wrong. “Please?” _

_ “No, Donut,” Secondary says eventually, tone firm even with the endearment tacked on. “We’re never going back. He shouldn’t have mentioned it to you.” Pink tightens his grip on his datapad, now afraid he’s gotten himself and his Primary into trouble. _

_ “Sorry Secondary,” he murmurs, voice wobbling. His Secondary is silent for a moment before sighing, placing his datapad on the table in front of them. _

_ “Don’t be sorry,” he soothes, holding Pink close. “We had all the snacks we could want, yes,” his Secondary pauses for a moment, as though the words won’t come. Pink waits patiently. _

_ “But it wasn’t fair how we got them,” Secondary settles on finally. “Would it be fair if you stole slush from Bek, or Zim to get more of your own?” Pink thinks about it. _

_ “I guess not,” he says finally, “why? Did you steal stuff?” His eyes widen. “Did you steal _ snacks _ ?” His Secondary gives a soft laugh, but it quickly turns into a grimace. _

_ “We stole things a lot more important than snacks,” he murmurs, “we did some bad stuff, Donut.” _

_ “Oh,” Pink says quietly, “really bad stuff?” _

_ “Really bad stuff,” his Secondary nods. _

_ “As bad as what the Irken Empire’s doing?” Pink asks, “that bad?” His Secondary is quiet for a long, long time. _

_ “Yes, Donut,” Secondary says finally, voice cracking a little, “that bad.” _

*

The first time Red meets Purple is on the day of Elite initiation. More specifically, he walks into the training hall to see everyone in varying phases of warming up for the sparring tournament that will decide their roles in the Elite force. Everyone except one Irken, who’s sat off to the side munching on a donut. He’s tall, possibly as tall as Red, with bright purple eyes.

Red stares, and finds his feet moving without his say so, until he’s standing in front of the Irken.

“You going to warm up?” Red asks. The Irken turns to look at him, blinks once, before shoving another mouthful of donut into his face.

“Looks hard,” the Irken says with a shrug, and Red stares a moment too long at a bit of icing smeared in the left corner of his mouth.

“It’s only going to get harder,” Red points out, “this is Elite training. You should be getting ready.”

“Well it looks too hard,” the Irken says stubbornly, shoving the rest of the donut in his mouth and crossing his arms.

“... Right,” Red says, and forces himself to walk away.

*

Red warms up with an Irken named Zim, who almost impales him with his PAK legs several times.

“We haven’t even started the matches yet,” Red snaps, ducking to the right of another sharp leg come too close. “It’s too early to be going all out!”

“It is never too early for ZIM!” Zim cries, and Red has to parry another blow to his right with one of his own PAK legs. Another comes from his left, and grazes his cheek, drawing blood. He bounces away, looking at the other Irken incredulously.

“Are you insane?” he hisses, wiping the blood off his cheek. The other Irken grins at him.

“Alright initiates,” a voice calls from the entrance, “line up!” An Irken in the Elite uniform moves from the entrance to the front of the official sparring ring, and the recruits line up obediently in front of him.

“Now, I’m sure you all have been told you’ll get be part of the Elite force,” the Irken says, “but you were lied to.” Murmurs break out among the students. “The initiation is to see who’s got what it takes to be an Elite, and who’s to return to regular military duty in shame. I hope you were paying attention to your rivals around you, because you’ll need every edge you can get in the arena.” 

The murmurs grow louder, and some of the initiates begin to shift on their feet. Red glances over at the purple-eyed Irken, and notices he’s started in on a bag of chips. The Irken meets his eyes and grins around a mouthful, waving.

“We’ll be doing good old-fashioned hand-to-hand combat, though you’ll all be allowed a close-range weapon pair of your choice. You’ll spar until first blood, anyone who loses within the first three rounds is out. The final winner will get a meeting with the Tallest, so don’t slack off just because you’ve made it past the third round! Lastly, if you’re not sparring, you’re not allowed in the room, they’ll be no more observational advantages! Now listen up, because I'm going to read off the first matches.” The Irken produces a list of names and begins to call them out. The purple-eyed Irken continues to munch, seemingly oblivious.

Red smirks. This is going to be easy.

*

He settles on a spear, and makes it through the first three rounds without problem. The matches get tougher as he goes, but his height gives him an advantage over many of his opponents, and by the final round he’s tired but overall unharmed.

He gets to the into the ring for the final round, ready for this to be over, and freezes in his tracks.

Across from him stands the purple-eyed Irken, humming off-key as he swings a pair of daggers through the air in sloppy strokes.

“How did you..?” he asks, and the other Irken looks up at him with a bright grin.

“Fancy meeting you here!” he says, “what’s your name, anyway? I’m Purple!” One of his knives slip from his hand and onto the floor and he gives a full-body recoil to avoid it.

“Red,” he says on autopilot, still stunned.

“Huh. Weird name!” Purple says, bending down to pick up his knife.

“Your name is Purple,” Red points out, and Purple shrugs.

Then the instructor enters the ring and blows his whistle, and the match is on. Red shakes himself out of his stupor and, figuring he might as well get this over with, lunges forward. He gets halfway across the ring, when Purple is up on his PAK legs, and elsewhere.

Red freezes, turning just in time to block both blades coming down on him with two of his own PAK legs. He looks up into Purple’s face incredulously, and sees narrowed eyes and a bloodthirsty smirk, a sharp focus in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

“Good job,” Purple says, PAK legs taking him back across the arena before Red’s spear can land a hit.

“Right back at you,” Red mutters, getting his feet back under him. He begins circling, more cautious now, and Purple follows flawlessly, lunging again a moment later. Red side-steps, thrusting his spear behind him, and grins when he hears Purple grunt from the blunt end’s impact with his back. He turns to see Purple clutching his side.

“Sorry, did that hurt?” Red gloats, and Purple glares, retreating on his PAK legs once more.

“No, but this will,” he hisses, and Red barely has time to react before Purple is up close and personal once more.

*

Their fight lasts longer than any of Red’s previous, and he loses count of the number of close calls on both sides. Finally, though, it ends.

Purple’s PAK legs take him backward, but upon their retraction he stumbles, and Red takes his chance. He lunges, aiming for the legs, when he’s thrown backward by a re-extended PAK leg come up from behind him. He lands flat, and Purple is on him before he can get back on his feet, stabbing the ground right next to Red’s head, just grazing his cheek.

Red pants, staring up in shock at the Irken pinning him, and feels something trickle down his cheek. Purple gives a dark grin before standing up, beginning to hum off-key again, and sheathes his knives. Red raises a shaky hand to his cheek and pulls it away to see bright green blood smeared on his finger; the instructor blows the whistle.

“It seems we have a winner,” the instructor calls, turning to a smaller Irken that has magically appeared beside him. “Call in the rest of the initiates, the matches are over.” The smaller Irken nods and scurries off.

“Good job soldiers,” the instructor says, nodding to both of them. “You both showed some impressive skills. You’ll be excellent additions to the Elites.”

“Thank you, sir!” Purple says brightly, glancing down at Red, who’s still sitting shell-shocked on the mat. “Need some help?” He offers Red a hand, and Red stares at it.

“Thanks,” he mutters, grabbing on and wincing as he’s yanked up.

“As the second most promising initiate I’m going to give you some advice, kid,” the instructor says, turning to Red, “never underestimate your opponent.”

“Oh, oh, what about me?” Purple says, waving his arms around excitedly, “what advice do I get?”

“Warm up before you spar,” the instructor says, “you’ll injure yourself if you don’t.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Purple nods, giving a sloppy salute.

*

“You cheated,” Red says afterward, while they wait for the rest of the recruits to file back in. Purple sits next to him, stabbing donut holes from a box and eating them off his knife.

“What do you mean?” Purple asks, the words garbled due to his full mouth.

“This!” Red says, gesturing, “you act like this when really you’re…” he trails off, unable to find the right words. Purple tilts his head, chewing. “That face in the ring was not the face of someone who sits around eating snacks all day,” he finishes. Purple hums and stabs another donut hole, then brings it to Red’s face.

“What?” Red asks, eyebrows furrowed.

“Consolation prize,” Purple explains, “you may have _ one _of my donuts. You’re welcome.” Red stares, mouth agape. Purple takes advantage and shoves the donut in Red’s open mouth, yanking the knife back out before Red can bite down on its sharp edges. Red chews the donut on instinct, and realizes that, yet again, he has no godly clue what is going on; a pattern when Purple is around, it seems.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he points out after he’s swallowed, and Purple shrugs, but when he looks back up the malicious grin is back on Purple's features.

“And you didn’t know until it was too late,” he replies, shoving another donut in his mouth.

Red has… nothing to say to this.

*

(He realizes something.

“Did you fight someone named Zim?” he asks, and Purple glances over again, humming.

“Small? Crazy? Probably defective?” he asks, and Red nods. “Yep, fifth round.”

“And?”

“He refused to use a weapon other than his PAK,” Purple says, “he was ruthless with it though, I think he’s made some self-upgrades on it. If he’d fought anyone but me he’d have made it farther.”

“Isn’t that, like, illegal?” Red asks, eyebrows furrowed. “Tinkering with your PAK?” Purple shrugs.

“We’re training for war,” he points out, “anything goes in war.”

“I’m not sure that’s how it works,” Red mutters, but lets it drop.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: *watches enter the florpus, is introduced to so many great, lovable characters*  
me: the Dumb Lazy Assholes. The Dumbass Lazy Assholes are the ones I Love.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zim and Dib make their first appearance!

_The Irken defectors-turned resistance soldiers often tell him stories about his creators, who they used to be and what they used to do, each story more outrageous than the last. They’re different now, calmer and more relaxed, but apparently they weren’t always this way. His primary creator, in particular, used to have a temper, or so he’s told._

_He’s only seen his primary creator really, truly mad once._

_It's enough to believe the stories._

*

They’re sorted into roles based on performance.

“Red,” the instructor barks, “Invader.” Red gives a huge grin. “Purple, Special Ops.” Red blinks, glances over at Purple, who glances back and shrugs with a smirk. “Zim, Invader.” Red curses.

“Now,” the instructor grunts, flipping the page on his clipboard. “You’ll all be assigned quarters based on height, which fortunately enough means the two finalists will be sharing with each other.” He gives Red and Purple a grin that looks decidedly malicious. “Push each other hard, you two.”

Red groans.

*

They’re given quarters larger than the rest of the initiates, as they deserve, being the tallest of the group. They also get their own private cleaning room, with beds on opposite walls.

“Alright,” Red mutters, “this is your half and this is my half.” He uses one of his PAK legs to draw a line down the middle. “You keep to your side and I’ll keep to my side and we’ll-”

“Oooh, looky!” Purple cries, running past Red’s line and up to the window on Red’s half, trailing donut crumbs. “We get a view!”

“-be fine.” Red mutters.

“Red! Look!” Purple says, and Red glances over to see him pointing out the window. He follows, and sure enough, they can see almost the entirety of the capital from their room’s vantage point.

“Not bad,” Red admits, “but it’s on _my _half of the room.”

“Then I’ll just come over to see it!” Purple says, not the least bit concerned, and Red sighs.

*

_The only time he’s ever seen his primary creator mad, well and truly mad, was when he was in his late smeethood, and murmurs of a new Irken defector had surfaced, an invader from a foreign planet, bringing along with him an inhabitant from the planet he was supposed to invade. Pink had wanted to go, wanted to _see, _so he’d asked Bek, who’d been keeping an eye on him for his creators, to take him down. His creators gave the approval, and so down to the docking bay they went._

_They go down, and get to the entrance, only to notice a rather unusual crowd of Ikrens has formed. Inside the docking bay, faint shouting can be heard._

_“Someone inform Purple and Red,” one of the Irkens near them mutters to another, “they’re not going to be pleased with this.” The other Irken nods and scurries off._

_“Excuse me,” Bek mutters, “excuse me, coming through,” he tugs Pink along through the crowd, only to freeze when the voice becomes distinct._

_"You cannot take Zim’s ship!” the voice cries, followed by the sounds of a scuffle. “I am ZIM!”_

_"Zim!” a voice snaps in an accent Pink has never heard before. “Of course they have to take our ship! We could be spies!”_

_“If Zim were a spy, they would never see him coming!” the high-pitched voice screeches back. “And the Dib-thing could not be a spy if his pathetic human life depended on it!”_

_“Oh no,” Bek croaks, beginning to tug Pink backward and away._

_“Is that why I managed to plant a spy bug in your secret base without you noticing for _months?”

_“C’mon Pink, we need to go,” Bek says, tugging more firmly now._

_"Why?” Pink asks, straining to see over the rest. (His creators promise him once he is grown he will tower over the others, as they do, but for now he must be patient.)_

_"Someone your creators were not particularly fond of,” Bek mutters grimly. “I fielded many a call between them, none of which were pleasant.” This is the wrong thing to say, however, as it only makes Pink more curious, and he wiggles out of Bek’s grip to sprint forward, ignoring Bek’s shouts._

_“Zim knew the device was there!” the high-pitched voice sputters, “He simply chose to leave it!”_

_“Why on _Earth _would you-”_

_Pink finally manages to break through the crowd, and at long last gets a good look at the new recruits. One is an Irken just taller than Pink, and the other is an alien species he’s never seen before, who all but towers over him. Pink trots forward, eyes bright and curious. The Irken turns to him and blinks._

_The room goes deathly silent._

_"A smeet?” the Irken says, “Zim was not aware the Resistance had cloning technology.”_

_"A what?” the alien asks._

_"A smeet,” the Irken repeats as if talking to a particularly dumb new recruit. “An Irken youth.”_

_"You guys have babies?” the alien asks in disbelief._

_"Of course!” the Irken sniffs, “what, did you think we all were birthed fully grown and ready for combat?”_

_"Honestly, yeah,” the alien admits, “... does that mean we should have been using protection all this time?” The Irken’s face turns bright green and he squawks._

_"Hi!” Pink says brightly, rocking on his heels. “Welcome!” No one else is doing it, so Pink figures he might as well. The alien looks down at him and _awws.

_"He speaks!” the alien says, “hey little guy!” He squats down and smiles. “I’m Dib. Who’re you?”_

_"I’m Pink!” He points to his eyes. “Because my eyes are pink!” The alien- Dib- glances over at the Irken._

_"Is Zim a color?” he asks, grinning, and the Irken crosses his arms._

_"There is no universal naming convention, Dib-smelly,” the Irken- Zim?- snaps. “The only others ever named for their eye color Zim knew were his Tallest, Red and Purple.” Someone in the crowd at the door drops something, and it shatters on the ground._

_“The ones who died?” Dib asks, and Pink frowns. He opens his mouth to assure them his creators are very much alive, but squeaks when he’s suddenly picked up and held upside down. Someone in the crowd who sounds suspiciously like Bek makes a sound like a dying gasquigasparch._

_“Your PAK,” the Irken says, examining his back, “It is unconventional.” Pink dangles complacently, a little uncomfortable but not in pain._

_“Oh my god, Zim,” the alien cries, “you can’t just pick up a kid like that!”_

_“Look, examine his PAK, Dib-human,” the Irken says, “It is not made of standard PAK material. Ramshackle at best. Zim could do better.” He gives some sort of self-satisfied nod. “It seems the Resistance has access to cloning data but not PAK blueprints. Shameful.”_

_“Jesus Zim, stop _holding _him like-”_

_“_ZIM!” _a sudden roar sounds from the back of the crowd, and Pink flinches; he’s never heard his secondary creator’s voice that furious. The crowd parts and both his creators come storming through, only to freeze at the sight of him._

_“My Tallest?” Zim says, wide-eyed. “That’s not possible. Zim was told-” Before he can finish there’s the sound of cannons firing up, and his primary creator is up on his PAK legs looming over them, PAK cannons all pointed at Dib._

_“I don’t know why you’re here, Zim,” his primary creator’s voice is calm, quiet and even, but its undertone is dark, dripping fury. “Nor do I care. But you will release my smeet immediately, put your hands behind your head, and get on your knees, or I will turn your companion into a screaming ball of agony begging for the release of death.” There’s shocked silence and Pink looks up at his primary creator, whose face betrays no emotion; Pink whimpers at the sight. His Primary seems to take this as an indicator of pain, however, because sudden fury crosses his features and he fires an inch away from the Dib’s head. “_NOW, ZIM!” _he roars, and a flurry of things happen at once._

_Zim drops him, and he lands on his head, crying out in pain. This appears to be the last straw for his primary creator, who screeches in fury and takes aim at the center of Dib’s chest. Zim seems to realize his mistake, because he lunges sideways and pushes Dib out of the line of fire. The shot goes off right as Pink’s secondary creator slams into his primary, up on his own PAK legs and shouting indistinct words in an urgent voice. The shot goes tall, taking half of Zim’s right antenna with it; he falls down screaming._

_“Zim!” Dib cries, scrambling up and over to him. Pink’s primary creator pays the writhing Irken no mind, racing over to Pink instead._

_“Are you hurt, Donut?” he asks, rubbing Pink’s head and antennae, holding him close. “Did he hurt you?”_

_“Is he okay?” his secondary creator asks, frantic, falling to his knees next to them._

_"He doesn’t seem to be injured,” his primary creator murmurs, turning Pink’s head this way and that. “Are you hurt, Donut?” Pink’s lower lip wobbles, but he shakes his head. His head hurts a bit, but his PAK is already healing the damage; he’s fine. Both his creators sigh in relief, before his secondary tenses again. He whips to the side, staring at the Irken still screaming on the floor, then back to Pink’s primary creator._

_“Purple,” his secondary creator hisses, “are you crazy? Do you want to get us kicked out of the Resistance?”_

_“He deserved it,” his primary creator growls, “everything he touches dies, and he _dared _to touch my smeet.” His creator’s tone makes him shiver, and he begins to sob in fright._

_“Shh, darling,” his primary creator coos, “don’t cry. I’ll kill him. Do you want me to kill him?”_

_“Purple!” his secondary creator snarls, “enough!”_

_“Are you, of all people, defending _Zim?” _his primary creator hisses, clutching Pink close. “After everything he’s done? After what he just did?”_

_“The Resistance is everyone’s second chance, Purple,” his secondary creator says, “if every recruit with a bad history was killed, you and I would’ve been dead long ago.” He pauses. “And maybe he wouldn’t have dropped_ _Pink if you hadn’t had your _cannons_ aimed and ready!” Purple visibly hesitates, glances over at the Ikren who’s on the ground and the frantic alien next to him, then sighs._

_“You,” he says, pointing to the tallest Irken in the group still at the door, “go get medical, see if they can hook up to his PAK and have it regrow the antenna without needing to access the control brain’s DNA bank. If they can’t, have them fashion a prosthetic,” he pauses, muttering curses to himself. “I take full responsibility for the resources consumed.” The Irken nods and scurries off. His primary creator turns back to him.“It’s okay, Donut, Primary’s got you.” He murmurs, and Pink lets out a hiccup._

_"It’s okay, Pink, you’re safe,” his secondary says softly, stroking his head, and Pink’s sobs turn to sniffles. Eventually, his secondary creator lets out a sigh and rises._

_“I’ll go talk to the commander in chief,” he says, “hopefully he’ll understand if I explain what happened.”_

_“They won’t exile us,” His primary creator says, “they need us.”_

_“We’ll see,” his secondary mutters, walking out of the docking bay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone called these two the fratboys of space and I just about cried


End file.
